


Dry Dock

by inconocible



Series: Colleen Shepard [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Drinking, Mass Effect 1 - 2 bridge, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:50:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inconocible/pseuds/inconocible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the Normandy, at this hour, in this mood, she would’ve slid into her favorite old running shoes and gone into the mess for a cup of tea and the warm, half-lowered lights of the night cycle. Maybe she would’ve even taken a lap around the ship, checking in on the night-side crew members.</p>
<p>On the Normandy, she almost certainly would’ve run into Garrus. Especially at this hour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dry Dock

Shepard sighed. She’d had a frustrating day, meeting with the Council, and she was glad that at least Garrus was still around, even if everyone else had taken off for personal leave.  
  
She needed to talk this through with someone more objective, more outside the tight circle of the Spectre office.  
  
The Council had tasked her to depart in a week and a half, to track down the rest of the geth beyond the Perseus Veil. But —  
  
"It sounds like a load of shit to me, honestly," Shepard said after summarizing the mission parameters.  
  
Garrus regarded her with a long look over the top of his glass. “Why do you say that?” he asked, taking a sip of the brandy.

Shepard glanced around, checking for someone who might be listening — but their booth in the quiet, somewhat upscale restaurant was relatively secluded. They’d long since finished dinner, were lingering over drinks.   
  
"Because I don’t think the geth are the problem," she said. "I don’t think the geth were ever the problem. I think they were Sovereign’s tools, just as Saren was a tool."  
  
"But the Council doesn’t agree."  
  
"They don’t." She huffed a frustrated sigh through her mouth, fiddling with the stem of her wine glass. "And I don’t think they’re sending me out to Terminus space just to track down the geth. They don’t want the reapers to be real. They want the threat to be over. I think they want me gone from council space so I’ll leave them alone about it. Debrief has been like beating my head against the wall. I get the feeling sometimes they think I’m crazy, like they don’t even care about my official report."  
  
Garrus abruptly leaned forward, reaching across and pressing his three-fingered hand flat on the table barely an inch from where her hand rested at the side of her empty glass.  
  
"Shepard." His voice had dropped several octaves, her name in his mouth a low, grating growl that would almost scare her, if she didn’t know better. It sent a chill down her spine.  
  
She tilted her head to the side in questioning.  
  
"You’re right," he insisted. "They’re wrong. You have to get them to believe you, about the reapers. You’re not crazy, you’re not stupid. You’re right."  
  
Impulsively, moved by the intensity of his gaze and his voice, Shepard closed the gap between her fingers and his, squeezing his hand.  
  
After a moment, Garrus leaned back and offered, with much more levity, “Want me to look over your report?”  
  
Shepard reluctantly slid her hand from his, tapped her omnitool to life, bringing up the file. “Sure, I guess. If you’re up for it. It’s practically a novel at this point.” She smiled a little. “I just need to get it on record with the Council before I ship back out.”  
  
"Well," Garrus hedged, looking down at her, his mandibles fluttering slightly, face relaxing into an almost-smile, "I’m still working on my C-Sec report about my investigation into Saren. So. We could, ah, compare notes?"  
  
At that, Shepard grinned and started the file transfer. “You’re on.”   
  
—  
  
The Citadel was still undergoing cleanup, though the combined efforts of the keepers and the Council were impressive. Residential services on most of the wards were back to almost-full operation.   
  
Though the  _Normandy_  could’ve limped along a little longer, Alliance brass had insisted that she spend some time in dry dock. Arcturus wouldn’t do, as both Alliance and Hierarchy technicians were needed to see to the ship. While most of the crew had taken off for personal leave almost immediately after arriving at the Citadel, Shepard stayed. She needed to be nearby during the  _Normandy_ ’s repairs, and she needed to take the time to finalize her formal report on the  _Normandy_ ’s long mission against Saren and to prepare for the next mission.  
  
So, there she was, sitting in her empty room after dinner.  
  
She’d insisted she didn’t need him to walk her back to the hotel room she was staying in for the week. Now it was late, 0138, and though she’d squeezed in a few hours of work, now she was wishing for company. The building was far too quiet — even the quietest of ships had a comforting, predictable hum, a white noise, to them. She couldn’t hear anything like that here.  
  
She sighed, putting down the data pad that contained Garrus’ C-Sec report and her markup notes. While he was going to the office for at least a few hours a day, he wasn’t back working cases yet. He’d told her he was technically on probation from the force until he submitted and defended his report, his investigation, his wide deviation from protocol. She thought it was probably good for her to take a break from her own report to help with his, and had been able to find several spots that could use improvement. Maybe the next time she opened her own work, her head would be clearer about it.  
  
She knew she should go to sleep. Or at least call room service — she still couldn’t believe this hotel offered something as swanky as room service, even if it was for higher-ranked Alliance officers and visiting human dignitaries — for a cup of tea or something.  
  
She flopped onto the far too large bed, toeing her boots off, her legs dangling over the side of the bed.  
  
On the  _Normandy_ , at this hour, in this mood, she would’ve slid into her favorite old running shoes and gone into the mess for a cup of tea and the warm, half-lowered lights of the night cycle. Maybe she would’ve even taken a lap around the ship, checking in on the night-side crew members.  
  
On the  _Normandy_ , she almost certainly would’ve run into Garrus. Especially at this hour.  
  
Garrus.  
  
She knew turians had different natural sleep cycles than humans. He’d told her once that he only needed four or fewer hours at a time, instead of the human eight, but more than once per day, often catching a cat-nap between the end of his shift and the evening meal.  
  
Still, sometimes, it felt like he wasn’t just up in the middle of the night cycle because he wanted to be, or because he wasn’t tired. Toward the end of the mission, it had started feeling like he was up because he figured she might be. Because he was waiting for her.  
  
Especially after Kaidan died.   
  
Shepard covered her head with her palm, pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to stave off the guilty headache that still overwhelmed her when she thought of the man. He hadn’t deserved that death.  
  
No one deserves death, she corrected herself.  
  
Her mind wandered, remembering the ways Garrus had grown to be her grounding rod, especially during the storm of Virmire. Faced with the horrible choice — Ash or Kaidan, Ash or Kaidan, fuck — she’d made a decision, she’d called the elevator back, she’d decided to ensure the bomb was set correctly. She’d chosen Ash.  
  
But there Garrus had been, normally at her right flank but taking a step around her to face her on that elevator, touching her elbow, saying, “Commander, we can go back for him if —” outlining a plan, promising to help get that bomb set at double-time, thinking quick on his feet. In retrospect, when she dwelled on that conversation — to which, at the time, she’d just quickly agreed, mind racing — she always thought of how good of a leader Garrus could be, given his own command. How he’d devised an almost flawless plan to save everyone.  
  
But Saren had been the wrench in the plan. Not everyone could be saved.  
  
There Garrus had been, though, at her right elbow, still, even after that catastrophe. She wondered if he’d felt any sort of guilt or regret about his plan, cleverly and quickly devised, not working, taking Kaidan’s life in the failure.   
  
She recalled how, that night after the mission, she’d left her cabin in the middle of the night and found a stone-sober Garrus half-comforting and half-keeping an eye on a very not sober Ashley and Tali. How he’d sent them off to their racks, when Shepard came in. How he’d offered her a shot of the bitter gin Ash had been drinking while he took one of whatever dextro crap Tali had been drinking. How his eyes and eventually, briefly, cautiously, his fingertips, had lingered over the three angry brownish-green bruises that had blossomed on her neck, where Saren had grabbed her by the throat. How angry he’d seemed to see the marks on her skin.   
  
Since then she’d spent some time with him almost every single evening. Every evening? She quickly thought back, sifting through the past few weeks in her mind. Yeah, every evening. Sometimes sitting in the cargo bay, passing him tools as he tweaked something on the Mako. Sometimes sitting at the table in the mess. Sometimes walking the ship together.  
  
Shepard told herself she was meeting him every night for professional reasons, that she was grooming his leadership skills, that Garrus was relatively young still, only a couple years younger than her, and needed a good mentor, that someday he’d be fantastic on his own command if he could contain his hot head for long enough to get there, that there was nothing inappropriate going on. But a small voice in the back of her head had been whispering: come on, really? She knew better.  
  
It was true, she did want to help Garrus grow professionally, but that wasn’t all of it. At some point Garrus had gone from being an unknown turian C-Sec officer — whose fangs and claws and height and brashness intimidated her, at times, though she’d been around turians for most of her life, growing up in space — to being a trusted teammate, to being a friend, to being a close friend, to being —?  
  
A man she spoke to more intimately than she had, to anyone, in a long time. A man she trusted more than she typically did, with more than she typically would. A man who could make her laugh, who could make her let her guard down, who could make her — happy? — even in the midst of an extremely stressful, high-stakes mission.  
  
A man she saw every night, a man whose company she craved and looked forward to.  
  
Whatever that meant.  
  
Well, every night except for last night, the first night the  _Normandy_  was in port in the dry dock. Most of the crew had taken off for nine days of personal leave. Garrus had gone to his apartment, Shepard, to check in with Anderson.  
  
She’d felt a little guilty, pinging him so soon earlier in the afternoon, practically ordering him to meet her for dinner after they were both finished with their workdays. But he’d accepted almost immediately, and eagerly, she thought.  
  
Now she wished she’d taken him up on his offer to head somewhere else after dinner, to continue the conversation over another round of drinks. To walk her back to her hotel, even.  
  
She was lonely.  
  
She felt bad about pinging him, at this hour, but not too bad. He’s probably still up, she thought. He’s rarely asleep at this time.  
  
_Hey, Vakarian_ , she wrote.   
  
Not a full minute later: _Shepard._  
  
Shit, he was definitely still up. Quick, she thought. Come up with an excuse.  
  
_Reading through your report. Some good stuff here._  
  
_Same, with yours. At first I had a hard time finding places to suggest changes._  
  
She smiled at this, could imagine his playful tone of voice at this comment, the foreign dual-toned ring of it that she’d slowly become accustomed to, even if she still couldn’t decipher it. While she smiled at the screen, a second message pinged in.  
  
_Shouldn’t you be asleep?_  
  
She sighed.  _Can’t sleep_ , she wrote.  _Too quiet. Not the_ Normandy _._  
  
_Hm_ , came his reply a couple minutes later.  _Seems like you’re still pretty stressed._  
  
She chuckled softly.  _Yeah, I am._  
  
_Aren’t you supposed to be on shore leave?_  he queried.  _Isn’t shore leave supposed to be relaxing?_  
  
She looked at the screen, shrugged her shoulders, realized he, of course, couldn’t see the gesture. She didn’t know what to say.   
  
After about five minutes of silence between them, she got another message from him:  _I know a thing or two about relieving stress after a mission. Is tomorrow night too soon to get together again?_  
  
"Damn, Vakarian," she said aloud to her empty hotel room. She re-read the brief message a few times, impressed at his forwardness. Maybe she was misinterpreting it, though. It was hard to tell, hard to read between the lines of his text. Maybe he wasn’t flirting. Maybe they weren’t both on that same weird uncertain page. Maybe he was just. Being himself. Being friendly.  
  
_Depends on what you have in mind_ , she finally typed back.  
  
_You’ll see_ , he quickly replied.  
  
She could feel the corners of her mouth quirking up.  _Okay_ , she replied.  _I’ll be with the Council all day tomorrow. Do your worst._  
  
—  
  
"Doing his worst" had involved hitting the C-Sec shooting range hard for a couple of hours before he’d sent her back to her hotel to shower and promised to return for her at 2000. Again, they’d gone for dinner, at a different place this time, and now were at this club that Garrus had promised was not exactly the newest or hottest but would provide enough privacy that she shouldn’t be bothered by the public, which had been an issue the night before, a pair of giggling asari nervously approaching their table, begging her for an autograph.   
  
He was right — this club was well-worn, a little filthy around the edges if she looked hard enough, and filled to bursting. Dinner had meant more asari wine, cheap and plentiful even if it was sweeter than she normally liked, and now they were both several drinks in, leaning at a bar-height round table tucked away in the shadows off the side of the dance floor. The stools had been removed, probably to allow club-goers to more easily set their drinks down briefly.  
  
Though they were both, now, just on the other side of tipsy, Garrus had stepped away a few moments ago to fetch another round from the bar.  
  
He’d made her promise, upon meeting at the range, not to talk work tonight — “remember, Shepard, this is about relieving stress, not dwelling on it,” he’d chided cheekily — though they’d both inevitably slipped up a few times.  
  
"I finished going over your report," she’d started as he was resetting their targets on the range. "It’s pretty strong, but there were a few places—"  
  
"Shepard," he’d cut her off, serious but smiling. "Work."  
  
"Right."   
  
"So," he’d begun at dinner, "I was comparing maps of the Terminus to known geth activity, and I think if you started at—"  
  
"Breaking your own rule, Garrus?" she’d interjected playfully, crinkling the corners of her eyes and wrinkling her nose at him. "I’m shocked."  
  
"Oh," he’d replied airily and with the smallest wink, "you know me."  
  
But it hadn’t been too hard, avoiding work topics. She’d learned a good bit about his family, and had even shared with him something she thought she’d never share with anyone else, now — her old family on Mindoir. It had come up as he told her of his youth on Palaven, in basic, the 20-mile march and week in the woods that they were forced to do, and she happily recalled her own first experience with camping, “though it was a little more about roasting marshmallows around the fire than doing night land nav exercises,” she’d said, teasing him. It didn’t hurt, to think of it, to let him in on it, on the shard of her past she usually kept locked away so tightly. It just felt. Natural. Right.  
  
Natural. Right. She’d kept turning those ideas over in the back of her mind through the evening, ribbing him on the range over the perfection of his aim, laughing quietly over dinner. The way he’d offered the crook of his elbow to her as they walked through the ward from the restaurant to the club, the way he’d briefly, lightly, pressed a hand to the small of her back as they wove their way through the crowd of drunk revelers inside.  
  
Natural. Right. Not the words she would’ve ever expected to assign to Garrus, the first time they met.  
  
She glanced over at the bar; the line looked long. It was getting late, nearly 0000, and the dance floor was heating up, both literally and figuratively. People of all races, still riding the elation of surviving the attack on the Citadel, tired and looking for a release after a long day of rebuilding, drank, laughed, moved as one mass. It was a lovely thing to watch.  
  
The line at the bar was long. Shepard craned her neck a little, trying to spot Garrus, but the dim light and the fact that there were a lot of turians in this club made it a little difficult. He’d be back soon enough. She’d said she didn’t want to overdo it, and, just before he went for another round, he’d shaken his head and put a light hand on her upper arm and said, “Nonsense, Shepard.” He’d squeezed her arm, said, “I’ll be right back,” and threaded his way through the crowd.  
  
He’d squeezed her arm. Natural. Right.  
  
Her mind wandered along with her gaze until she paused scanning the dancers as she noticed a couple locked in what appeared to be a very amorous embrace on the side of the dance floor. The couple were both turians, and she thought she could distinguish the female by the slimness of her face and length of her fringe, though she realized with a twinge of embarrassment that she really didn’t know a lot about turians aside from their military structure.   
  
Shepard watched in unabashed, tipsy, voyeuristic curiosity as the two pressed their foreheads together, swaying slowly despite the fast beat of the dance music, their bodies seeming to touch at almost every point. She expected them to kiss, but they didn’t, just touched foreheads. The male’s hands were all over the female’s body, up and down the slim curve of her waist, while the female slid her hands behind her partner’s head, under his fringe, massaging.   
  
Shepard was so fascinated by the alien, yet almost-familiar, behavior that she didn’t hear Garrus come up behind her, balancing two smaller glasses — the intergalactic version of shotglasses, she’d learned — in the palm of his right hand and two regular glasses between the fingers of his left. “Shepard,” he said, a little too close to her ear as he set the liquor down on the table, and she startled, his breath sending a chill down her spine. He chuckled.  
  
"Commander Shepard? Off her guard?" he teased.   
  
"No," she said defensively, but not really meaning it.   
  
He offered her one of the shotglasses. Like she and Ashley had taught him to do, they clinked the glasses together, slammed them to the table, and took the shots. Shepard wrinkled her face and took a sip of her other drink. “Strong,” she ground out.  
  
"Good," Garrus answered.  
  
They leaned in companionable silence against the table for several long minutes, sipping at their mixed drinks. Shepard began to feel that last shot — she certainly wasn’t as young as she used to be, and it had been good, strong. While the distance between them had been cordial, friendly, professional, even, for most of the evening, after resettling himself after the last shot, he’d ended up quite closer to her than he had been earlier, their elbows just touching.  
  
Natural, she thought. Right.  
  
Shepard glanced around the club, keenly aware of the heat of Garrus’ arm next to hers through the slowly-growing fog of her intoxication. Her eyes came to rest, again, on that turian couple, who were still swaying, still connected at the forehead, hands still roaming, a little more urgently than before.   
  
"So," she started, glancing over at Garrus, "call me ignorant, but — what exactly does that mean?" She gestured at the couple with her glass, directing his gaze. "The foreheads… thing."  
  
"Oh." He chuckled. "Well…" He left his thought trailing, looking around the dance floor. She thought he’d dropped it, that he wasn’t going to tell her, until he said, "it basically means the same thing as… that."  
  
"What?" she asked, not understanding. He reached over and, with the tip of his talon, softly nudged her chin, turning her line of sight to the opposite side of the dance floor. "Oh," she said, seeing what he saw.  
  
A human couple, clearly drunk, dancing hard to the beat, like there was no tomorrow. Younger than her by at least five years, maybe even almost ten, she guessed. Maybe tourists, or businesspeople. Hard to tell. The woman had her ass grinding snugly against the man’s crotch, and the man had pushed the woman’s long hair over one shoulder and was kissing at the skin of the woman’s neck, and was running his hands over the woman’s ribs and hips, and the woman was reaching back and groping at the man’s ass. Turning her head a little more, the woman offered the man her mouth. Shepard could see the man’s tongue slipping into the woman’s mouth.  
  
"That raunchy, huh?" Shepard asked, looking away from the alluring pair of dancers.  
  
"Yeah," Garrus answered drily. "Maybe a little less. But, yeah." He had taken his hand from her chin, but not from her — it had fallen down to rest on her forearm, just above her wrist.  
  
Shepard looked back at the turian couple, then at the human one again. She glanced down at Garrus’ hand on her wrist. The weight of his hand felt natural, she thought. Right. She finished her drink in one long gulp, feeling the alcohol slithering down into her stomach. She’d have a hangover in the morning, she thought, but at the moment, she didn’t care.  
  
What was it that Garrus had said? Stress relief, right?  
  
Shepard smiled, feeling more bold than usual. She weighed what she wanted to do against what she ought to do, and her buzzed brain came to the following quick conclusion: You’re not his superior officer anymore.  
  
"So," she said, a little coy, "which do you prefer?"  
  
"What?" Garrus said, turning his head.  
  
"You know," she said. "Which do you prefer — turian kissing, or human kissing?" She felt cheesy, she felt too forward, she shivered a little. She felt like she was about to fling their friendship off a cliff if she wasn’t careful. Maybe he still wasn’t on the same page. No, she thought, feeling his hand on her wrist tighten just a little. No, I’m pretty sure he’s on the same page, and I’m not his superior anymore and he’s not my subordinate and —  
  
"Well," he said, drawing the l out, pulling his mandibles tight, looking her seriously in the eye. "Ah, well," he repeated, and she could tell he was thinking. She smiled, raising an eyebrow at him, waiting, questioning.   
  
"Well," he finally said, "I’ve, ah — I’ve never tried the human version, so I suppose I couldn’t say."  
  
"Oh," she said. "Well —" and she knew she could make a joke here, could sidestep the moment with a witty retort if she’d wanted, but that wasn’t what she wanted.  
  
She shifted, raised up on her toes, and leaned in before she lost her nerve, pressing her lips softly, chastely, even, to his, lingering, questioning him with her gaze. There. She’d wanted to kiss him, and she had. And did he want that too? and —  
  
She got her answer as he finally woke up, finally unfroze, and instead of pulling away he moved his hand to the small of her back, pressing her a little closer. She could feel him pushing gently at her lips with the tip of his tongue, and she opened her mouth, and she was lost.  
  
His tongue tentatively swept against hers and she tilted her head, allowing him a little more access, nervously brushing the palm of her hand against the side of his mandibles, thumb skating over the blue-lined ridge of his cheek, tasting the hard yet velvety-smooth surface of his mouth plates, every molecule in her body buzzing at how right it felt, how natural, despite the mountain of alien differences between them.  
  
When they finally broke the kiss, Garrus growled, “You know, I’m still not sure.”   
  
"What?" she asked, a little disoriented, a little bewildered. Did he not just kiss her back as enthusiastically as she’d kissed him? Was that not consensual? Did he not want this? What —  
  
"Well," he explained, more serious than she expected but keeping the pressure of his hand consistent on her lower back, "I think it’s hard to say what I prefer until I try both."  
  
"Oh," she laughed, nervy, and he brought his other hand to her neck, cradling the back of her head in his large palm, dropping his face down, touching his forehead to hers. She closed her eyes, taking a long breath in. It felt. Natural. Right. "Oh," she said again, not much more than a sigh.  
  
He was nearly purring, she realized with a curious start. She could feel the vibration thrumming through his entire body, transferring his energy to her at the point where their foreheads touched. She wondered what it would feel like as a turian couple, both vibrating against the other.  
  
"Both," he finally murmured, still pressed against her.   
  
"Both?"  
  
"I like both," he said.  
  
"Good," she whispered, "me too," and before she fully realized what she was doing she was tilting her chin up again and capturing his mouth and he was kissing her back again, even more enthusiastically.  
  
Natural. Right. Good.  
  
—  
  
For the rest of the evening it was like a switch had been flipped, like she never wanted to take her hands off of him, as ridiculous as she found it.  
  
It wasn’t that she had never had lovers; it wasn’t that at all. There had been Miles, an intense teenage relationship full of firsts on Mindoir, and he had taken a long while to get over. But later, during her service, there had been a handful or two of casual hookups — even, in the months after Akuze, a brief relationship with an asari on the Citadel, a wonderful maiden who made Shepard feel comfortable not just on the dance floor and in the bedroom but also comfortable talking about what had happened, who helped Shepard put her head back together.   
  
Still, it had been a little while since she’d had anyone, and longer than that since she’d felt so intensely about a potential lover so quickly. Usually she was more casual about it. Not tonight.  
  
And god, was she glad that Garrus seemed to be on the same page. After they’d finally detangled for a few moments, catching their breath, he’d offered to go fetch still another round of drinks. Her mind said maybe that was a bad idea but what she actually said was, “Why?” hoping he didn’t want to get away from her, hoping he didn’t feel awkward.  
  
But when he’d squeezed her hand and earnestly drawled, “To celebrate,” she’d grinned broadly, relieved. They were on the same page.  
  
He even managed to drag her to the dance floor after that next round of shots, despite her feeble protests that she didn’t really like to dance. He just said, “That’s okay,” and took her hand, pulled her out into the press of bodies, held her close, swaying against her. She ran her hands over his chest and he leaned down and kissed her. She smiled against his mouth, not ever wanting to break the kiss.  
  
—  
  
"You want me to walk you back?" he was asking her, standing outside the club, her hand in the crook of his elbow. 0330, somehow. She yawned, shivered a little, leaned her head against his upper arm.   
  
"I don’t want to go back," she answered petulantly. She was drunk and she was just wanting him, more, now. Just wanting to not be alone. "It’s so quiet. I couldn’t sleep last night."  
  
He considered her for a long moment, looking down at her, his face becoming still and serious. “I guess,” he started slowly, “you could come back to my place, if you wanted.”  
  
She pursed her lips. “Would that be weird?”  
  
He shrugged, a human gesture, she reflected, that looked both funny and normal on him. “Doesn’t have to be.”  
  
"Okay, then," she said, suddenly bashful. Were they really doing this?  
  
"Come on." He put his arm around her shoulders and they began to walk. Yeah, they were really doing this.  
  
—  
  
He keyed the security code in, opening the door. His apartment was small, spare, not much there, no couch, even, just a kitchen, a table and chairs for eating at, and the door to what she figured was his bedroom.  
  
"Sorry," he said vaguely as he moved around the room and ducked into the other room, turning on lights. "It’s not much."  
  
She shrugged.  
  
He returned, hooked a finger under her chin, kissed her again, briefly, not much more than a peck on the lips. Pulled back, looked at her, questioning. “Is this okay?” he asked.  
  
What did he mean? What was he planning? “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, Garrus, this is great.”  
  
"I’m not really tired yet," he said.   
  
"Me neither," she said, though she had just stifled a yawn a few moments ago.  
  
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "we can probably catch a re-air of the Serrice biotiball match, if you want."  
  
She nodded. He took her hand and led her to the other room, which, as she’d guessed, was a bedroom, with what looked like a small bathroom attached. It, too, was small and sparse: just a double bed, closet, extranet terminal on the desk with a chair, and a small table next to the desk that held an assortment of gun parts and mods. A half-full rucksack sat on the floor next to the closet. He clearly hadn’t fully settled back in after leaving the  _Normandy_.  
  
He toed out of his boots and loosened the collar of his civvie shirt, said, “Sorry I don’t have much guest seating,” and sat on the bed, rearranging pillows against the headboard, reclining.   
  
"That’s fine," she said, toeing out of her shoes, feeling suddenly overwhelmingly nervous. Her head spun a little as she sank onto the edge his bed, gripping it with both hands, overcome with how weird this might turn out to be, how much of a ill-thought out, drunken decision this might have been.  
  
But he wasn’t loosening any of his other clothing, she noticed. He was actually doing what he’d said, tapping at his omnitool with a familiar expression of concentration, and before she knew it he did, indeed, have a re-air of the Serrice game pulled up on the vid screen. He cocked his head at her, opening his arms a little, and she got the message loud and clear. She shakily crawled across and lightly settled into the space between his cowl and his arm.  
  
After about five minutes, he turned to her, no doubt feeling her discomfort, her rigidness in his arms. “Shepard,” he said.  
  
She made a questioning noise, not taking her eyes from the screen. “Mm?”  
  
"I don’t want to —" He paused. "I think we should —" He paused again.  
  
"What?"  
  
"We should, ah, take it slowly?" She looked at him now, a little relieved to see her own nervousness reflected in his face, his mandibles pulled tight against his jaw. "I just don’t want to — ah — I mean — you’re a good friend, and —"  
  
She smiled now, reaching out and touching his face, stroking a finger along the line of his mandible. “Yeah,” she said, relieved. “We should take it slow.”  
  
"But," he countered, "you do — ah — want to — you know — keep going? With this? Or was it just a one-time —"  
  
"Garrus," Shepard said, low, quiet, firm, looking him straight in the eye. Her head was feeling dizzy from the drinks and from the evening, but she wanted to get this right. "I — I trust you, more than anyone else in the galaxy. If you want to keep going with this, it’s something I’d like very much. But only if we’re on the same page."  
  
He relaxed visibly, leaning into her touch. “Yeah,” he said earnestly, smiling. “Definitely.”  
  
—  
  
She woke in the morning with a headache. He was gone.   
  
She groaned and sat up, looking around, listening for the sound of him in the other room. But she didn’t hear anything. She saw that there was a standard galactic-style glass on the table with the gun mods, along with a datapad that hadn’t been there the night before. She got up, stretching, rolling her bad right shoulder around in its socket, taking the datapad, noting that the glass was full of water.  
  
_I didn’t want to wake you this morning. There’s a levo cafe around the corner that I hear serves a mean cup of coffee. Front door will automatically lock behind you. Let me know if you want to talk. -G_  
  
Shepard smiled, thinking of how she’d drowsed off against his shoulder last night, during the final quarter of the game. How he’d woken her, kissed her thoroughly, shut off the vid screen, extinguished the lights, pulled her close against him under the covers.  
  
"Is this okay?" he’d whispered.  
  
"Yeah," she’d said sleepily. "Definitely."  
  
She had fallen asleep with her forehead against his, feeling more relaxed than she thought was possible in the circle of his arms.  
  
Now, she downed the water, feeling more clear-headed already. She put on her shoes and pulled up her omnitool interface, a little embarrassed to realize that it was already 0815, especially since she was usually up closer to 0530 and since she had to go to the Spectre office this morning. She still had time, though. Despite the late hour, she couldn’t wipe the stupid smile off her face.  
  
_Hey. I’m up. You should’ve woken me this morning. I do want to talk. Tonight?_  
  
Almost immediately, a message pinged back.  _Yeah. Definitely._  
  
_Let me know when you’re free._  
  
She shut his front door behind her, heading down the steps of the apartment building and turning out onto the sidewalk. She checked the time, thought, fuck it, and decided to go around the corner to the place he’d mentioned — coffee sounded like the perfect remedy to her headache. You drank too much last night, she chided herself, but not harshly. She honestly felt like she was floating instead of walking, like the previous night had been so out of character for her, but so right. So natural.  
  
Five minutes later, she was in line in the bustling cafe, waiting her turn at the register, plotting how long it would take her to get back to her hotel and get into some semblance of a uniform before heading up to the Spectre office. Her omnitool pinged again.  
  
_I do want to talk tonight, but I can’t wait to say this: Last night was great, Shepard. I enjoyed your company so much. And you looked beautiful this morning. I couldn’t bring myself to wake you._  
  
She was pretty sure the asari in line behind her probably thought she had a rare human disease — her blush burned her face. She was sure she was bright red.  
  
Another ping.  _In fact, I almost couldn’t bring myself to leave for work._  
  
So, she thought. So.   
  
_Tonight_ , she wrote back.  _Rematch._  
  
—  
  
The week rolled by in a quick flash. Shepard finished and submitted her report, improved by Garrus’s eye. Likewise, Garrus finished, submitted and defended his, strengthened by Shepard’s editing. On her last night on the Citadel, they went to dinner to celebrate his successful reinstatement to C-Sec.  
  
Each evening, after they both finished their work, they’d been meeting, for dinner or for drinks and frequently for both. Sometimes they hit the C-Sec range beforehand. Other times, they lazily strolled the Presidium, hand-in-hand, even, if Shepard was feeling bold, just people-watching, just enjoying one another’s company.  
  
Shepard was happier than she’d ever been, at the beginning of a relationship or an extended affair, or whatever this was.  
  
Actually, whatever this was, it wasn’t quite an affair.  
  
Garrus had meant it, it seemed, when he’d agreed to take it slow, to figure out how to reconcile their alienness together. Aside from kissing — and, god, she hadn’t kissed anyone so much in the past five years as she did him, that week — he hadn’t been too eager to progress too much farther, physically, at least, despite the fact that sometimes Shepard did want to go farther, faster, and she thought he did too. Though she had stayed with him every night, become pleasantly and rapidly used to falling asleep and waking up in the secure circle of his arms, they had restrained themselves under a mutual agreement to progress intentionally, thoughtfully. At one point, they’d both lost their shirts, but then stopped, stilled, calmed. Returned to their languid exploration. Not pushed it.  
  
She liked that.  
  
It seemed he was as anxious as she was to preserve — to strengthen, even — their friendship, which was growing now between the blossoming relationship and the fact that they felt that they were on equal ground now, the fact that she wasn’t his superior anymore. Between making out like she hadn’t since she was a teenager, they talked, and talked and talked and talked. Work, not-work, past, future, family stuff.   
  
Shepard was starting to feel like this wasn’t a friendship that was veering drunkenly off into affair territory. No, in fact, she was starting to feel like it was the opposite: a friendship that was beginning to solidify into a true partnership, in all the varying definitions of the idea.  
  
She regretted that Garrus wouldn’t be shipping out with the  _Normandy_ , but in a way, she was glad. She didn’t want him under her command anymore. She wanted him as an equal. As a partner.  
  
—  
  
"So," he said. The crew had reported for muster, and Shepard’s stuff was already aboard, and she had her orders, however much she questioned them. Terminus systems. About three months, give or take.  
  
He’d walked her to the docking bay, and now stood, leaning on the railing next to her, gazing at the  _Normandy_. She looked good, better, cleaned up inside and out. The time in dry dock had been good for the ship… as well as for its commander, Shepard conceded.  
  
She glanced around. No one else was on the dock. It was only 20 minutes until departure; she hoped everyone was already aboard, making ready to go, as they ought to be.  
  
She turned to look at Garrus, next to her, trying to act casual, but she saw the slight tension in his body, in the rigidness of his mandibles. She marveled briefly at how she was learning, in leaps and bounds, more quickly than during their mission, to read him, understand his body language, even recognize a few of his more distinct subvocals.  
  
"So," she said.  
  
He put a hand on the small of her back, still not looking at her. “Be safe,” he said.   
  
"We’ll talk," she said. "I hope it’ll be the sort of mission where I have a lot of downtime because the Council is wrong and I won’t find anything."  
  
"Yeah," he said with a snort. "I hope so too."  
  
She put a hand on his back, turning him to look at her. “Garrus.”  
  
When he turned toward her, she slid both arms around him, and he put his around hers. She pressed her cheek against the side of his cowl. “We’ll talk, okay?” she said again, a little nervously, looking up at him. “Not many opsec regs on this one. We’ll find time.”  
  
"Shepard," he said, voice dropping, a little gravelly, looking down at her. "I know."  
  
He pulled away, and, in what had quickly become something of a normal move for them, bent to kiss her once on the mouth and then pressed his forehead against hers, threading his hand through the back of her hair. She touched her palm to his cheek.  
  
"I’ll be waiting for you," he whispered.   
  
"Good," she whispered back with a small, playful smile. "I can’t wait to come back, then."  
  
She kissed him once more on the mouth, and he embraced her tightly. They broke apart at the sound of a wolf whistle.  
  
Shepard turned a little guiltily to see Ashley standing in the door of the  _Normandy_. “Damn, Skipper!” she crowed, grinning broadly. “Get some!”  
  
Shepard blushed. Garrus laughed. He took her hand, walked her the remaining distance to the  _Normandy_ , squeezed her hand, let go. Flung his arm around her shoulders one last time, in a relaxed half-hug.  
  
"When did this happen?" Ashley asked, still smiling.  
  
"Oh," Shepard said airily, also smiling. "We went out for drinks to — how did you put it? relieve some stress? — and, one thing and another…" She shrugged.  
  
"Good for you," Ashley said. "Really. You both deserve it."  
  
"You watch my girl’s back, now, Williams," Garrus said teasingly, briefly tightening his hold around Shepard’s shoulders.  
  
"Aye, aye," she said, throwing him a sloppy, saucy salute. "You know you can trust me, Vakarian."  
  
"That I do," he said.  
  
"We’re off in 15," Shepard said. "Ash, go make sure everyone’s ready."  
  
"Yes ma’am," she answered, professional once again.  
  
Garrus leaned in to steal one more kiss. “Keep me updated.”  
  
"I will."  
  
—  
  
For the first three days, they exchanged messages randomly throughout the day and got the chance to vid-call once. Everything was fine. The  _Normandy_  was making a stop-over at Omega before heading out into the depths of the Terminus. Garrus had scowled at that. Shepard had shrugged.  
  
Shepard had been pleasantly surprised at him — such a flirt, she’d thought. She liked it, though, liked knowing he was thinking of her, liked being able to ping him back with the briefest  _missing you on my ground team today_  and knowing that that was enough. That they were on even ground.  
  
—  
  
On the third day, he woke up, missing her in his bed, as he had been the other mornings, but still pleased that they’d negotiated a time to vidcall last night. He pulled up his omnitool and tapped out:  _Good morning here, Shepard. Missing you._  
  
A moment later, as he was standing in front of his closet, contemplating which uniform shirt was the most clean, his ‘tool pinged; he opened it eagerly, expecting her.  
  
_Message undeliverable._  
  
He blinked at his omnitool, confused.  
  
_Shepard? Something wrong with your tool?_  
  
_Message undeliverable._  
  
_Shepard?_  
  
_Message undeliverable._  
  
"Spirits," he breathed. There must be something wrong.  
  
_Shepard? Is everything okay?_  
  
_Message undeliverable._  
  
"Fuck," he growled, trying to control his rapidly increasing breath and heartbeat. No, no, he thought, he needed to stay calm. Maybe — maybe there were connectivity issues, so far out in the Terminus. Maybe she was tinkering with her omnitool, had bought an upgrade on Omega. Any number of things could be going on.  
  
_Let me know what’s going on, okay?_  
  
_Message undeliverable._  
  
He resolved to continue about his day as usual, to try not to give it too much worry. He was finally back on regular casework, and he didn’t want to show up late to work on only his third day back.  
  
In the elevator on the way up, he blew a centering breath out of his mouth and tried again.  _Shepard? What’s going on with your omnitool?_  
  
_Message undeliverable._  
  
When he arrived to the office, though, he saw that there was an unusual visitor — Anderson. Councilor Anderson, now, actually. He’d met the man before, had spoken to him, knew Shepard thought highly of him. But why — why was he here, in his office?  
  
"Vakarian," Anderson boomed, and he sounded serious, concerned. "I’ve been trying to contact all the former  _Normandy_ crew members. You’re the only one not out there with them right now who stayed behind on the Citadel — I sent messages to the rest, but I thought I’d let you know in person, especially since you were so instrumental to Shepard’s victory over Saren and Sovereign.”  
  
"Let me know what?" A cold dread had crept up on Garrus.  
  
Anderson looked at the floor, cleared his throat. “The  _Normandy_ was attacked several hours ago, by, well, we’re not sure just yet who or what.”  
  
"Attacked?"  
  
"Most of the crew got out," Anderson said, glancing back up, not answering the question, pushing ahead, as though he had practiced saying these words in this specific order and needed to get them out of his body. "But not Shepard."  
  
Garrus tilted his head to the side, mandibles slacking open stupidly. “Not Shepard?” he repeated.  
  
"She went down over the planet," Anderson said, clearing his throat again. "She — didn’t make it into any of the escape pods before the ship blew. Flight Lieutenant Moreau reported —" Anderson cleared his throat yet again, "Joker reported seeing her. Spaced." He sighed loudly. "Gone. Dead."  
  
Anderson was still looking at the floor. His face still slack, still uncomprehending, not caring about appearing insubordinate, Garrus again pulled up his ‘tool interface, tapped with a shaking hand,  _Shepard? Are you there?_  
  
_Message undeliverable._  
  
"Spirits," he breathed again, for the second time of the morning, letting his wrist drop to his side.  
  
"I’m sorry, son," Anderson said quietly. "She was — she was an excellent soldier, and an excellent XO, and, from what I hear, an excellent commander."  
  
"Yeah," Garrus said distantly, his gaze unfocused, thinking of the press of her body against his. Natural. Right. Spaced. Gone. Dead. "Definitely."


End file.
